


i crawl into the coffin with you (bury my bones and scatter my ashes)

by onewiththesun



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: CHARACTERS!!!! CHARACTERS, DNF, F/F, GOT THAT, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hindu mythology!!!, I’m Hindu myself so this will be a ride, M/M, NOT THE CCs, bc we respect people, but it was fun, comparisons to greek heroes, dreamnotfound, inspired by myths around the world!!, just other myths in general, lol this is super bad, not the actual people :D, so respect the actual people, some background hints of ships but they’re not actually a ship, that’s fun, we love some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28582056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewiththesun/pseuds/onewiththesun
Summary: george sighs with impatience, but sticks out his wrist. dream rewraps the beaded bracelet around his wrist, slender fingers tugging at every little bump. the beads clink against each other as george raises his hand, and brings it to dream's forehead."my dream.""yes, george. i'm all yours."myths from around the world, and the dream smp replace it!
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 18
Kudos: 103





	1. the shore

the sea glitters, cold and bright against the frigid morning air. the sun is warm in contrast, sleepy and thin, pooling its warmth across the war-ravaged lands.

a man sits at the shore. the frothy waters lap at his toes, inviting. he sits, calm. he sits as the bloodshed grows, as the war-cries pierce the air, as men die. he is calm.

he whittles. his dagger strikes against the wood, and carves his way down, cutting a shape into the gleaming, rutted slab. he presses his thumb down on the blade, too hard, and a bead of blood drops to the sand.

curious green eyes linger on it, before he swipes it away, leaving, deep, trenched lines in the sand. he does not know how to be human. if he does not acknowledge something, all traces are gone. including blood. that is how it works in his little, arrogant mind.

he rests his dagger down, and observes his masterpiece. it is choppy, with jagged edges, but somehow, a face was noticeable. lips; carefully trimmed, eyes; neatly stabbed in, a picture-perfect body, all curves and smooth skin.

he smiles with pleasure, and gently touches the face of the figure. woody eyes bore into him, judgmental, and with a surge of embarrassment, he lifts his finger away.

how disfigured and ugly.

he cradles the figure in his hand, and runs his thumb down the curve of the hip, the thigh, the ankle—the heel. blood erupts from his cut, and besmirches the heel. he clucks his tongue with irritation.

birds squawk. sails from boats billow in the wind. men bleed into the earth. a man sits.

footsteps drag him up from his unreadable thoughts, and he turns to see him. a lean man, all skin and bones, with a question playing on his lips, the wind rustling his brown hair.

he sits beside him. they sit in silence. finally, the brown-haired man speaks.

"dream," he says throatily, and dream's lips twitch slightly at the voice. "what are you doing by the sea? paying your mother a visit?"

"you know very well, george, i do not 'visit' my family."

"then why are you here?" george asks, shifting forward. his fingers sink into the warm sand. "when our men are dying?"

"our men?" dream scoffs. he picks his dagger up, and presses his thumb to it again. george watches him move with swiftness, and he flinches when a droplet of blood falls to the sand again. "our men. how odd. i do not remember ever signing up to be a caretaker for dead spirits."

george grimaces, and sighs with weariness. "dream. look at me."

he hums in response. "i am, george. you are the only one i look at."

"that is the one problem i have with you."

"do you?" dream mutters, and the daggers strikes against wood again. this time, the head cuts cleanly off, and plops to the sand. "i don't have any complaints."

"of course you don't," george's eyes dance with emotion, too layered to make out. "dream. please. look at me."

dream raises his head. they lock eyes. a gaze full of words, yet they speak none. seconds tick, the waves crash against the shore, the war broils.

finally he whispers, passing the dagger into george's hands, not once tearing his eyes away, "what happened to us?"

george gives an aggrieved sigh and grips the hilt. "you. you happened."

silence fills the gap between them. they both turn away. the birds cry. the boats creak. the sea quiets.

george swallows, and glances down at the dagger, the blade flashing against the sun. "dream. join us."

"us?"

"the men. sapnap..." he leans forward and smiles warmly, crinkling the corners of his eyes. he sticks the dagger into the sand.

the blade sinks, stuck halfway, and calmly, george undos the beaded bracelet on his pale wrist and ties around the hilt. he reaches over and slides his fingers underneath dream's chin, and forces the man to look at him again.

dream's breath hitches. he can count the dark flecks in george's eyes, dark as the sea. "...and me. dream. my dream. fight for our country."

thick silence settles once more betwixt them, and george's eyes, george himself, is like a spell he can't turn from. but alas, he does, resting his hand over the other's. "forgive me, but i can't. you forget one thing. i don't care for this country."

george pulls away, and he can feel the anger thrum underneath his skin.

"fine," he huffs, drawing his knees up to his chin. "fine. this country will win without you."

dream smiles gently and gazes at him. "I'm sure it will."

"you're not taking me seriously!" he cries, and his companion gives a slight wheeze. "stop laughing!"

"oh, forgive me, gogy," he says teasingly and george rolls his eyes. "i have committed a severe error."

"oh, hush," george snaps, and then purses his lips, gazing out into the shimmering ocean. boats, allied with l'manburg, pull up into docks, men pouring out the hulls, swords ready to take lives quickly as a candle snuffing out. "...dream."

"hm?"

"our men are bitter and angry at you. if you don't join us, they will turn on you."

dream shrugs offhandedly, and follows the tail of the bracelet as it whips in the wind. he pulls the dagger from the sand, and unravels it from the hilt. "put this back on. for luck. i made it, just for you."

george sighs with impatience, but sticks out his wrist. dream rewraps the beaded bracelet around his wrist, slender fingers tugging at every little bump. the beads clink against each other as george raises his hand, and brings it to dream's forehead.

"my dream."

"yes, george. i'm all yours."

the other man gives a bright laugh and brushes his fingertips against the lines on his forehead. "am i? well, then. maybe you'll let me steal your armor."

"mine?" his brow furrows. "why mine?"

george smiles gently. he's hiding something, but dream doesn't question it. "my breastplate burnt up in a pyre."

"an offering?" he asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"mm," george hums in response.

"ah. go ahead. are you heading back to the battlefield?"

"are you?"

"what— how many times have i told you? no!" dream exclaims, and his companion only laughs with a familiar timbre.

"oh, my dream, i'm sorry."

he rises to his feet, but before he does, he leans over and presses a kiss against dream's cheek. he smells like smoke and wax. a hint of something cold, something almost like death curls up to his nostrils but george pulls away before he can make it out.

his skin tingles. suddenly, dream finds himself wanting more. more. and more. more, as in, bite his bottom lip with a kiss, run his tongue along his teeth, wind his hands in his brown hair, and touch burning skin to burning skin.

more.

he swallows it all down. dream reaches out to poke george's cheek, and there is something sad in the other man's eyes, before the sun blinds him, and george is gone, leaving footprints embedded in the sand.

"be careful," he whispers, but his words scatter into the wind.

—•—

tommy runs across the shore, desperate gasps huffing from his mouth. his sandals slap against the hot sand, his armor jingles and bounces, his blond hair tangles in the breeze.

dream sits. a dagger strikes against wood. this time, he carves out a man. his life. he smiles proudly at the figure, and gently touches the figure's lips.

"george," he whispers. he is alone. no one, not the greatest poets alive, not even the gods, can describe how he felt about him.

just him.

he goes to set his dagger down, but his thumb jerks against the blade. blood drops to the sand. this time, he does not turn away. he smiles at the sight of pure humanity, and drops the dagger.

he cannot hear theseus. or was it icarus? paris, maybe? he cannot hear the sun-kissed boy, bringing news that would tear him apart. not even the gods can warn him, for love clouds up his eyes and ears.

"dream!" paris screeches, and dream jolts up. the child of theseus and icarus, doomed to plummet into the sea and dive off a cliff, the enemy of dream, draws nearer, and he can see the news written in his eyes. "dream. i'm sorry...for your loss."

paris's lips move, and spills the news, and brings dream the end of his life.

a scream of despairing grief echoes throughout the land. the gods fall to their knees.

—•—

night blanketed all the stars. the smoke from the pyre curls up to the sky. a crowd of people gather around the pyre and whisper words of pity and consolation.

dream screams until his throat is raw. he screams and screams. a hand gingerly touches him. he slaps it away and weeps. it is when the fire begins to scorch the body of george, does he fling himself over the body.

there are gasps of surprise and worry, but he does not care. it does not matter. nothing matters.

he can see george's peaceful face, still and unmoving. the fire catches onto his silks, and dream shrieks with hysteria, dropping the dagger and clutching the body tighter. "SAVE HIM! SAVE HIM!"

no one moves. he sobs even more. another hand touches him, but it stays there. he looks up with bloodshot eyes.

his friend.

his friend? he didn't have friends. not anymore.

the man's eyes were tearful too. bitterness blossomed on his tongue. did he understand? why was he crying?

suddenly, another person gently pushes the man aside and replaces the hand on his face. it's warm, and he can hardly make out her face in the smoke but he knows her.

she, the friend of wilbur (hector) peels him away, and dream (achilles) reaches out for his george (patroclus), but george does not reach back.

his patroclus does not reach back.

—•—

dream drags the body of wilbur around the battlefield, and he can hear the indignant cries, the whispers.

tommy's (paris? that damn child, he was the cause of all this) mournful shouts do not deter him. now the boy feels loss? at this monster? dream is cold and lifeless. he does not see, he does not hear, he does not feel. his life is gone. his soul is gone.

dust billows up in clouds as wilbur's body is marred, is ruined, is defiled. it is dirtied, and his family watches despairingly. lycomedes observes slightly, expression empty. nothing for his brother is shown. fundy does not understand, young as he is. he does not know why his father is being dishonored in such a way.

their father falls to his knees, and grieves. no one touches him. anger crawls up dream's throat, and he picks up his pace.

"he's gone mad with grief," the people whisper, and pitiful looks are cast at phil, at tommy, at technoblade, at fundy.

anger blinds him. where was the pity when george died? why do they feel pity, when wilbur's death is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to george's?

he pauses, and turns back. he can see the tracks circling around the battlefield. lycomedes's eyes watch him for his next move.

he picks up wilbur's body and slams it to the ground. the grim sound of cracking bones leaves him satisfied, and he does not care when phil screams.

"my rage, my fury! would drive me now to hack your flesh away and eat you raw – such agonies you have caused me!" he screams, his eyes wild with madness, and he raises a foot to crush down on the body again.

he can hear the faint words of tommy shouting something, and before he knew it, niki emerges from the dust, and she runs and flings herself over wilbur.

niki's (andromache's) shuddering sobs fill the air, and dream is silent, angry.

angry.

angry at himself for suddenly feeling guilty, for feeling pity for her. she looks up at him with tear-rimmed eyes, and he understands her. he remembers the cold night, with smoke and grief pouring out his lungs.

he remembers her soothing words and her apologies, and the curves of her fingers as she pressed the golden urn of ashes into his hands.

he stands there and lets her cry.

—•—

the tent flap lifts, and there stands phil. phil, the father of wilbur. dream looks at him with red eyes as he sits on his canopy, unable to move or eat. a bowl of dried fruit left by sapnap is cold and untouched.

phil flinches, at both the stare and the rotting smell that fills the tent. it is silent, the air tense. finally, the man speaks. "i...know you do not want to see me."

dream smiles mirthlessly. "then why are you here?"

he turns his face away. his own eyes are tired and weary and old. "how have you been? ever since...?"

dream sighs and reaches for an olive in the bowl. he pinches it between his forefinger and his thumb, and it explodes. juice dribbles down his wrist. "why are you here?"

phil swallows and takes a couple strides across the tent, so that they faced each other. suddenly, he drops to his knees and clasps dream's hands to his forehead.

"please," he chokes out. "please, can you return my son's body?"

dream is quiet, and he rips away his hands. his lip curls up with disgust. "wilbur's body? why?"

phil jerks his head up. his face is crumpled and the curves of his cheeks are streaked with tears. he looks older than ever. "he's my son! my son!"

"your son?" he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. "let me tell you one thing, sir. no one is safe from rumors. not even you. i've heard that you always cherished your eldest over wilbur. so why?"

"i care for him!" phil exclaims, and he sounds absolutely incredulous. his shoulders tense. "no matter how much i love my eldest, he is my son! that doesn't mean i don't care for him! please..."

"no," dream interrupts shortly and shoves him off. "now leave. i don't want to speak to you anymore."

"my boys!" phil cries and dream pauses. "my boys! they miss him! wilbur's son misses him! he's an orphan! he needs to wish his father off one last time! his friends too...everybody loved him...please..."

sudden rage filled dream's eyes and he flings the bowl to the floor. it crashes and breaks, and glass pieces scatters across the floor. the dried fruit rolls underneath the canopy bed. he bellows with such fury, "you have two other sons who can fill the spot in your heart! i have only one george!"

he falters and realizes hot tears are sliding down his face. his pride is wounded, but he does not wipe them away and shouts, "and now he's gone, thanks to your son, whom you claim everyone loves!"

"at least give me his corpse! you don't have to arrange a funeral!" phil shouts, begs.

silence fills the tent. nothing stirs.

dream breathes heavily through his nose and he glares down at phil. finally, he looks away. "...fine. do what you will of the body. i will not attend the funeral."

phil's face lights up, and he touches his feet with gratitude. he bows and bows, and then leaves with the battered and bruised body. the rotten stench goes away with it, but dream falls back onto his bed, gets swallowed by his sheets, and does not move.

—•—

the sea laps at his toes, calming and inviting. the pain at his heel is throbbing, but dream does not care. he can feel the gaze of niki, and tommy, and sapnap, all watching him, watching him as his breath began to shallow.

niki was calm. she was the one who did this. she levels a bow in her hand, and revels in the pleasure of revenge. dream does not care. the corners of his eyes darken. the world darkens. he does not care.

"you're dying," says a monotone voice, and technoblade fills his vision. his long, pink hair tickles his cheeks. "do you want to be saved, or do you want to pass peacefully?"

"what's the point?" dream breathes through the overwhelming pain. he is human. at last. but george is not here to be human with him. "i never enjoyed this life."

"until..." niki whispers, kneeling down beside him as well. she holds something in her hands. george's ashes.

"...until george," someone chokes out, and dream shifts his gaze to meet sapnap's anguished eyes. there is a prick at his own eyes. does he care? maybe he does. "until george. oh, dream, i hate you. i hate george for what he did to you."

"oh, don't blame george for what i've become. i've always been a monster. george was just my tamer."

technoblade grimaces, and signals to something past him. a soldier comes and lays a white sheet over him. he does not care.

"farewell, my friend," sapnap whispers, and dream smiles.

"farewell. may we meet in the underworld—" his words are cut off as he coughs up blood. it splatters across the sheet. tommy covers his nose and turns away. an excuse to hide his tears. "niki?"

"yes?"

"i forgive you." but he does not care if niki hates him or not. she does not care either. "can you do me a favor?"

"what is it?" she asks as sapnap lays a hand on his forehead and plays with a lock of his hair. it was soothing. tears drip off the man's chin and plop onto dream's forehead.

"bury my bones with george's, and mix my ashes with his. that is my last request."

silence befalls the shore, and not even the ocean stirs. technoblade nods. "we will honor your request."

dream smiles wearily. "thank you. sapnap, i wish you all the best in the rest of your life. don't cry. don't cry. i'll be fine."

they stand, waiting. the world waits. the gods wait.

"perhaps now i will know how to be human," he whispers thickly, happiness and the metallic twang of blood blooming in his mouth as the world withers away.

the light leaves his eyes. his chest stills. he is at peace. the ocean roars.

technoblade strikes a match and tosses it into the sheets. it catches and the fire broils. it licks the body and thin flames flick up to the sky.

remaining soldiers bow their heads with respect, and then hurry away, leaving the others to clean. silence fills the air again, and no words are spoken as they move. none are needed.

dust coats the ground. niki kneels down to collect them, the golden urn open, and as her fingers sift through them, she gives a noise of surprise.

a beaded bracelet glitters within the ashes.

and so the curtain falls.


	2. the end of wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> his soul is awoken.
> 
> (hi!! sorry for the short chapter!!)

isis's blood runs through his veins. her burning figure overlaps in his shadow. he pushes the shovel into the dirt. it buries deep into the dirt, and it hits the surface of a coffin.

he is isis as he digs up schlatt's remains. he is isis as the dirt piles beside him. he is isis as he heaves up schlatt's coffin. he is isis as he pries open the lid.

he is isis when he takes his husband's body out of his slumber.

he splays schlatt's remains out and gazes at the familiar man. anger clouds his eyes. he grits his teeth, and hatred pours out of him like molten lava.

he kneels beside him. he takes out bones, eyeballs, arms. he neatly and gently, as if schlatt is an art, he connects the remains together.

a needle pierces the rotten and mottled skin, and he brings the needle through stitched flesh. he smiles in satisfaction.

osiris is his masterpiece. and he, isis, is his creator.

silence carries throughout the graveyard. the country once ruled, the world once barren, holds its breath. the souls in the afterlife, in hell, shriek with jealousy, bound with hot chains and their sins committed once in a blessed life. a tear drops on osiris's peaceful face, and it burns him.

he may be isis, but he is also set.

set, the traitor. set, the murderer. set, once trusted.

several more tears drop on his ex-husband's face. he screams. it rips his throat. it destroys him.

he is mad, deranged as he wails, "you made me miserable! you pushed me aside when you were supposed to be partners! now, i'll control you! i'll control you like you did to me!"

he leans over and caresses his husband's face with his fingers, and whispers, close to his ear, "awaken."

osiris opens his eyes.

and isis and set laugh.

—•—

who am i? who are you? what…are you?

memories of you are wisps, coming and going like gusts of wind. i cannot remember you wholly. or i refuse to.

i can remember you gazing at me with bright, hopeful eyes, your smile like the coquette of a sly fox. instead, your smile was the future at my fingertips to me.

i can remember an embittered man, once my friend. i met him in the afterlife. he is sad and tired and half-mad. he carries blue in his hands.

…he resembles you. 

no, he is you now.

you are not the man in my memories. the past you.

a spirit like isis, a face like set. no, two-faced like set.

you were once my companion, a man with a golden band around his finger—i share the same one.

a memory returns to me, in pieces at the edges of my mind. i remember gazing at that ring after you left me. i did not have the heart to melt it. i died with that ring.

you claim i was the cause of your misery. your caterwaul of anguish and revenge shreds the humid night air apart. your eyes, once hopeful and bright, smolder with the blazing anger of a thousand suns.

you finally utter my name, and it is as if it burns your tongue. you whisper it with such hatred, it scorches me and i turn away. i confess, it hurts me.

“schlatt,” you say again, and i raise my eyes to meet yours. your gaze is delirious. “you are my puppet. you will be. do you understand?”

i do not, my _querido_. i have caused you so much pain that i cannot refuse you. i do not even recall my misdeeds, but you grip onto them, like beads all part of a necklace worn around your throat.

“yes,” i answer, my voice hollow, and my isis is gone. the man who stands in front of me is an imposter.

set is the necklace chained around your neck. my misdeeds are the beads. but you hold the strings to me.

who will break first? who will cut the ribbon first so that the beads clatter onto the floor, and you lose all drive, or my body will drop like a marionette, and my eyes lose their light?

let us wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Osiris, Isis and Set are the theme for this chapter! I don’t think Set was an actual villain, it’s just the most famous and influential myth in Egyptian mythology shows him murdering and usurping his brother’s throne. Remember to be respectful—this is someone’s religion!! :) 
> 
> I wrote Schlatt and Quackity as once married before! It is canon that they were married (Schlatt did leave him at the altar, but hey, the angst!). I do not condone his actions during their presidency, and his abuse and toxicity to Quackity, Tubbo, Fundy, and, well, practically everyone around him. 
> 
> I just thought it would be fun to play into canon that Quackity resurrected Schlatt, and Glatt (his ghost) was like Ghostbur—unable to remember anything but happy moments. In this case, he remembers a time before and during the election. I don’t think they were that happy after, lmao 
> 
> Anyways, I have exams this week, so no uploads for about two weeks, and forgive me for this short chapter! 
> 
> Headcanon used: they spoke Spanish to each other whenever they felt like it lol


	3. hypocrisy

wilbur is not a man with many regrets. time moves on without you, and it is better to not dwell on your past faults. it is better to not ask questions. none. that way, for him, at least, he shoulders the guilt with a light conscience.

so when dream (achilles) stands in front of him, rage flashing in his green eyes, he knows he's the one who created this boy?—man?—monster. his name roars from dream's mouth, and it carries over the battlefield. some soldiers pause, the sun bouncing off their breastplates and their spears. time seems to stop moving.

wilbur knows this madman.

"dream..." he mutters. tommy beside him bristles. dream's face darkens. he does not see reason. he does not see anything.

“wilbur!” he shouts, and it is as if his tongue was a hot steel-rod. that mere, bitter whisper of his name carries, scorching anything in its path. wilbur can feel his skin thrum. "did you hear george's last words?"

( _if you are to bury me, take me back to our house, where he and i once grew up as children._ )

“no,” he whispers. tommy parts his lips, but says nothing.

“did you see his face as death took him?”

_(if you are to cremate me, give him my ashes, if he is willing._ )

“no!” he mutters again. tommy says nothing.

“did you hear his dying breath?” dream shrieks, his green eyes clouded.

( _what do you wish for, george?_ )

( _me, wilbur? questionable to ask a dying man, much less you slaughtered._ )

( _answer me. i’m trying to make the process less painful._ )

( _…all i wish is to be with him, even in death._ )

wilbur’s skin is scorching.

“come here and fight me!” tommy finally says; screams. “don’t target wilbur!”

“you!” dream sneers, and he sounds mad again. “you! you useless child! you sun-kissed boy, you, who started this! move! wilbur isn’t worth protecting! he’s a monster!” 

tommy, who is paris, who is theseus, who is icarus, who is his _brother_ —does not move.

“wilbur is no monster,” tommy retaliates. his voice shakes. his hands tremble, his grip on his sword slipping. “he is a man. unlike you.”

“...what?”

“you aren’t a man anymore, dream. you are what you claim wilbur is. if you want to murder him, kill me too. i will descend into the underworld with him.”

“move, tommy. you will regret this,” dream says, his voice unrecognizable. tommy does not move. he instead digs his heels into the ground and clenches his jaw. silence is blanketing the air, tense and taut. wilbur cannot think.

everything—everything is slipping away. something goes wrong. is tommy still there? he does not know. his father? no, his other brother. they are like boulders, unmoving and still. nothing can erode them.

something is wrong. his family isn’t there. it is him and only him. his wife? his wife is there, amongst the vultures. his wife meets eyes with him. a smile plays on her playful, coy lips. she brings a finger up to them, and tosses the black veil over her eyes once more. once more? why was she dressed in black in the first place? the soldiers, so caught up in their silly war, do not notice.

the madmen who does not see reason steps forward.

time slows. kronos squeezes his throat, wraps his fingers around his neck, and sucks his life. but how odd, no pain is there. the pain blooms in his stomach.

he can hear someone screaming. kronos peers up at him with his green eyes, through golden lashes, and releases his fingers from death. the pain worsens at his abdomen.

his wife smiles brighter. her eyes are shrouded in the black veil. a soft hand cradles the curve of his cheek. why are the vultures still there, when his wife is fading and kronos (madman, monster, the man who does not see reason) is gone?

kind eyes gaze at him. why are they so pretty? oh, they fill with tears, and with every ounce of his strength, wilbur musters enough stamina to wipe them away with his thumb.

somehow, he knows her. everyone knows her. she is the goddess of the hearth. the kiln. the forgery. why does everyone know her?

“why? why? why must you chase after glory? why must you slaughter? why must you leave your son orphaned?” she cries, and wilbur laughs, tasting copper.

“life isn’t meant for so many questions, my dear.”

he nearly chokes on his hypocrisy.

“can you save him?!” someone shouts, and it is paris, returning from helen. it is theseus, nimbly afoot, seasalt in his hair. it is icarus, who sews new wings. it is his _brother_ , who is merely there.

“no, we can’t!” niki yells back, tears sliding down her cheeks. he laughs.

“smile, my darling.”

  
( _tell dream this. tell him to smile once he hears of my passing._ )

( _but why?_ )

( _because joy is the only thing he must feel. i cannot bear it if he spills tears. happiness is the only thing i pray for him._ )

“smile, tommy. smile, father.”

phil buries his face into his hands, shame stinging his eyes. tommy is silent.

“smile, techno.”

techno does not heed his request. instead, he closes his eyes.

“smile, fundy.”

fundy frowns.

“smile, sally.”

and sally is here, and she is smiling warmly. warmer than the day she left him. warmer than the day their son blinked up at them. warmer than the day she met him. she has her hand extended. he takes it.

wilbur’s skin is on fire, and smoke fills his lungs as he burns his soul away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! sorry for the short chapters. might get those for a while. um, yeah, so. wilbur’s point of view as hector. did y’all like it? anyways, you guys should read the illiad :) 
> 
> the next chapter miiiiiight be about quackity and schlatt again, but i dunno. it’ll come in three weeks!
> 
> drop comments! really appreciate feedback <3 thanks for the kudos!


	4. the deep, dark catacombs of an abandoned city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden secrets hide nothing.

four fishermen entered the lost city of mizu, and never returned.

four fishermen now stood at the mouth of the catacombs, anticipating anything but death. cleetus, the jester, held out a torch, and the flame causes shadows to dance on the walls.

“well, this is a sight,” speaks up isaac. “are you sure this is the right place?”

“mm,” charles, the experienced, hums. “we’re sure.”

“mizu is such a dark place,” benjamin, the nimble-footed, comments, and there are noises of agreement.

“these rotten corpses need to do a better job of keeping the place running,” cleetus quips, and the torch bobs as he moves it around.

“they’re dead! that’s the whole point!” benjamin counters, but the jester rolls his eyes. charles, however, peers off into the distance and exclaims, “look! a door!”

“what will the door lead to?” isaac asks, something other than wariness weaved into his voice. “it could be a scam, for all we know.”

“what are you, a wimp?” cleetus sneers, and isaac presses his lips together. he looks like he’s waiting for something.

“leave him alone, whatever-your-name-is!” benjamin says, his tone firm, and ignoring cleetus’s indignant squawk, he turns to him and smiles softly. “ignore him, he’s an asshole. but, are you going in with us? you don’t have to. you can keep watch.”

“uh…no, i’ll go. we’ve been planning this for a bit, so…”

charles raises an eyebrow at the hesitance, but nods to cleetus, who moves forward. the torch’s light brightens the area, and the creak of the door as it opens is heard.

gasps of surprise follow it, as the flame uncovers a wide and large space, made of stone slabs and glittering minerals. it seems dilapidated, abandoned, but it held that regal charm of once hosting kings and queens and gods.

“wow,” charles breathes, and glances at isaac, who merely smiles at the grand sight. “it’s beautiful. i wonder what the ancients were thinking.”

“not just ancient peoples,” benjamin pipes up, his face filled with admiration. “the city could hold our ancestors.”

“ha!” cleetus snorts, and steps forward. his footstep rings hollow in the entrance. “as if! how lucky is that?”

“very,” a voice says, and the four fishermen jolt with fright. the jester lets a shriek and swings the torch like a bat. as the flame passes through, a face is thrown in light.

they suck in a breath as the figure walks forward, and they were now able to see them. his face was a terrible sight, black and white splashed together in brilliant chiaroscuro, and lamp-like eyes that shone with yellow and purple.

isaac sucks in a sharp breath, and his eyes widen before his face settles into a neutral expression again. cleetus’s voice cracks as he demands, trying to seem threatening, “who are you? what are you doing here? and why do you look funny?”

the person chuckles, and his lamp-like eyes meet with isaac’s as his lips curls up into a coy smile. “i’ve been here for years, alone.”

“alone?” cleetus repeats, suspicion creeping into his voice. “no man can bear that. what’s your name?”

“my name?” he sounds taken-aback, and the pink tip of his tongue is bitten between his white teeth.

“yea, your name.”

“…r-ranbob.”

“ranbob??”

charles stifles his smile with his hand, and benjamin pinches cleetus’s ear as the man began to chortle. isaac laughs with amusement, but seems slightly shaken, as if he’s heard that name before. “don’t be mean! sorry, ranbob is a…lovely name.”

“it just sounds stupid!”

“says the person who’s named cleetus!” benjamin insults, and charles hisses. ranbob smiles tentatively.

“let’s not argue. are you all here to find out about the lost city of mizu?”

“yea,” isaac affirms, glancing around. “this place probably has a looooot of history.”

ranbob nods, his ear flicking. “my family is a line of scholars, so i’m hoping to document some things.”

“ooooo, you are?” cleetus says slyly. “then you can help us when we get confused. never liked history. failed it in school.”

“probably cause all you know how to do is pierce bait into a hook,” charles snarks, and cleetus gives an offended gasp.

“stop projecting your marital issues onto me! it’s not my fault your wife doesn’t like you anymore—“

“enough!” isaac snaps, and the two fall silent. “ranbob—“ the jester snickers. “—um, let’s head inside. can you lead us?”

the enderman gives a nod of assurance, and then beckons for them to follow. the nimble-footed man leaps forward, while the experienced one peers through the veil of darkness to guess what’s next. isaac follows.

the halls are elongated, imposing. again, it is as if silk-touched princes and bejeweled princesses ran down these halls. their faded laughter seems to echo off the walls as they look around.

isaac presses his palm against the rough stone, and he can feel the dedication, the devotion, the love this city was built on. he can feel lies, and betrayal, and the sick taste of death. he removes his hand, and rubs his throat.

“holy cow!” cleetus exclaims, and grins. “wonder how many backs broke building this place?”

it feels like royalty built this,” charles says, his voice filled with awe.

“feels?” he repeats, sounding incredulous, and ranbob smiles. there is tenderness within it, as if he is recollecting a memory. 

“it is rumored that one, lonely man built a castle for his best friend. the castle soon became a blueprint for the city.”

“huh,” isaac murmurs, and his eyes narrow. “that’s quite interesting.”

”isn’t it?” charles exclaims, his eyes bright. “i wonder who that man was.”

”who builds a whole ass city for their best friend? i sure as hell wouldn’t,” cleetus remarks and benjamin snorts. 

“you don’t have any friends.”

”woooow, okay! so you’re an anti-bullying campaign for others, but when it comes to me, we’re suddenly back in highschool! i see how it is.”

“oh hush, you two!” charles snaps, and they fall silent. they seem to be good at doing that. “you remind me of my wife! always bickering…”

”there he goes, projecting again,” cleetus says dramatically, clicking his tongue in mock pity. the fisherman responds with a rude gesture. the jester grins and turns to the scholar.

”so we going in or not?”

”yes,” he answers with a sigh, and gesticulates for them to follow him again. they heed, and their footsteps echo in the halls as they walk down. 

as they got closer to the chambers, they notice a dusty tapestry pinned to the wall and benjamin swats the dust off. this, in particular, caught his eye. 

“this looks like a battle,” he comments and wipes at the thick layer of dust. it flutters to the ground. “come see this one, guys!”

they crowd around it. a swirling imagery of red creeps in thick vines around a tree, and is swallowing it whole.

on the other side of the fabric, a man, tiny, stands up to the red poison, face determined. it is too faded into history to make out the face, but his eyes, the only thing clear, are amused. conflicting emotion is evident in them. he... _enjoys_ the havoc. 

benjamin gives a soft sigh. it sounds regretful.“what a pity it’s too old. i wonder who’s story is being told here.”

isaac can feel ranbob’s burning stare at the back and clears his throat. “let’s go.”

”yeah, why look at some boring tapestry? let’s get into the juicy secrets!” cleetus says, and bounds ahead of them. they tag along.

the first room is caught sight by charles, who points and ushers them inside. their breaths are caught in their throats as the room unfolds underneath the radiance of the torch. 

it seems cold and dissonant, as if many tears were shed. a final goodbye lingers in the air. a unlit, sooty grate smothers a broken heart. 

the items inside are a contrast. a bed, bundled with velvet blankets, and fluffed pillows is guarded off by a golden gate. a mahogany dresser, polished, is at the corner, untouched. 

above the bed, however, was a sight. plastered above the bedframe, was pictures upon pictures of a man.

he has a delicate face, and a wide smile that seems comforting and warm. a diadem rests on his brow. cleetus frowns.

“what the hell? what is this? a cult?”

ranbob bristles and coughs. “this here, is king george. one of the greatest and magnificent rulers of kings on the SMP. he was unfortunately murdered by eret, a former tyrannical king who grew mad with jealousy, but was loved and worshipped by his subjects. my ancestors noted that many pictures of him were around the SMP.”

”oooooo, so he’s a fan favorite and a pretty boy!” cleetus quips, grinning and benjamin frowns. “i like him.”

”he was a good king too,” isaac softly says, his eyes unreadable. “is that trustable?”

”i don’t doubt my family,” ranbob answers firmly, a harsh note of finality in his voice, and isaac drops it. “he was an amazing king.”

”hey, look, a book,” charles says from across the room, breaking tension, and when they turn to look at him, he is holding a red book. 

he flips through it and frowns. “says the same thing. singing praises about ‘great’ king george. if he was so good, i wonder how mizu became such a…”

”dump,” isaac whispers. his eyes fix on one of the pictures. george stands with others, dressed in sparkly and rich-looking regalia, smiling brightly. his cheeks are rosy with happiness, and the same gleaming diadem is nestled on his head. 

a man, his face out of frame, leans against him. his arm is wrapped around george’s shoulders. another man, all stout limbs, stands next to him, his elbow balanced on the king’s shoulder, his smile joyful. 

they look happy.

“hey, you coming?” charles calls, and he blinks out from his reverie. the others stand across the room, at the doorway, staring at him.

he gives a small chuckle and moves to meet with them. “yes, i am.”

”where are we going now, bobster?” cleetus asks with a teasing tone, and a smile lifts the corner of ranbob’s mouth. 

“a room made for a scholar.”

“a scholar?” benjamin says, and the enderman nods. 

“this way, if you please.”

a little further down the hall they walk until ranbob pauses in front of a foot. with a creak, he shoulders it open, revealing a dusty room. 

it is neat, and plain, and simple, but knowledgeable. it holds an unique charm of burden. they spread out. 

“this room,” ranbob speaks up, as cleetus pokes around the nightstands and find a book. “is dedicated to my ancestor, ranboo.”

”that’s so cool!”

”he is said to be the greatest scholar to date, and had impeccable memory. he knew what to write, when, where. he kept track of everything.”

”that’s interesting,” the jester pipes up. “it says here that he has the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair.”

silence settles, and benjamin whisks the notes from his hands. “that is awfully rude,” he scolds. “in history books or not.”

ranbob shakes his head assuringly. “no, it’s alright. the history books may be correct.”

”i mean, i still think the reliability on the books can’t be trusted. who knows who wrote them. a historian recently? fifty years ago? it may be hundreds of years ago! it could be framed in a way to change our mindsets!” isaac exclaims vehemently, and charles frowns.

“well, however it might be framed, there’s some truth to it, isn’t there? why is it here?”

murmurs of agreement rose, and cleetus grins. “so, let’s move on! we can judge that ourselves.”

benjamin smiles softly, and leaves the room with charles, hand-in-hand, and cleetus bounds after them, wildly waving the torch.   
  


isaac steps forward, but then pauses as a voice, low and threatening, says, “don’t usurp my chances, _karl_.”

his blood runs cold, and he spins around to face ranbob, the one who spoke the sentence. or rather, an old friend from long ago.

”i…”

”let us hurry before those idiots think something’s wrong.”   
  


the enderman pushes past him and out the room, and karl is lost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, hey! Sorry that this chapter is not technically related to the Dream SMP or a myth, but after the recent Tales of the SMP, I just had to. Forgive me for the shortness of it as well. I hope you enjoy this :) I twisted the dialogue a bit and the plot order and just a few things in general to fit the theme, but it’s still loyal to the stream.  
> We’ll be going back to the usual chapters after this, lol; drop comments and feedback!!


	5. the red room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bloody night.

the mansion is spacious, filling rooms and rooms with awkward silence. the ballroom is thick with tension as karl cradles a cup of hard liquor in his hands, while sir billiam iii (the third) gazes at him with such intensity. his pink lips curve up with amusement when he notices karl turn away.

”i sent out letters, but honestly, that was my butler. what do you for a profession, sir?”

the aforementioned butler sits at the hostelry, or more so, the bar, and wipes glasses with gusto. he is mute, but a handsome man with an unique countenance. shades of white and black highlight his hair, but the half of his face is covered by a golden mask, heeding the instructions for the masquerade ball. 

karl bites his lip and hurriedly answers, “um, i’m an entertainer.”

“entertainer, you say?” billiam quirks his brow and sips his wine. he swills it in his mouth before swallowing, and he grins. his unusually sharp teeth are tinted with red. “well, then, you can surely be the jest of the ball tonight!”

karl laughs hesitantly, unsure if that was a subtle jab or not, but he doesn’t get to answer before the wealthy duke sweeps past him and sharply says, “butler! the door!”

the butler alerts and races to the large entrance doors, made out of heavy wood and yanks them open. a carriage rumbles out of view as the doors open to a woman. 

she is dressed in silver taffeta, the gleam of the moon causing a reflection of pale blue, and tulle and lace weave up her sleeves and throat. many layers of silk rustle as she moves forward and the doors shut.

she is lithe and slightly young, with a rosy complexion and blonde ringlets. a blue mask covers her face and she curtsies, then kisses billiam’s ring. 

“welcome, baroness learia,” he says cordially, and she smiles. her cheeks cleft with dimples, and billiam slightly softens, exhaling a short breath through his nose. “how is your husband?”

”very well, your grace. oh? who is this fellow?” she peers over his shoulder, blue eyes blinking curiously at karl, who waves with uncertainty.

“this is karl, he is an…entertainer. rather experienced when dealing with currency, hm?”

”um, yes. you’re right. i guess.”

”how much do you make, sir?”

”um, enough to marry you,” he cleverly creates out of thin air. 

learia laughs and claps her gloved hands. “oh, he’s quite delightful! i’m sorry, i am already in matrimony, but perhaps i can convince my husband to invite you, sir.”

”karl is just fine,” he hastily intervenes, and as the other two launch into a polite conversation, his eyes wander to the butler, who hovers around them, working. 

he glances over, and karl sends a warm smile. this mansion is severely understaffed. he probably deals with his stress alone, and his master certainly isn’t helping him.   
  
the butler looks taken aback by surprise and almost eager for attention, and karl winks.  
the butler nearly drops the rag in his hands and inclines his head in acknowledgment before swallowing and busying himself again. 

one by one, the other nobles trickle in, with bright smiles and excited demeanors. they present themselves with courteous bows or curtsies. 

karl watches with amusement as they kneel to sir billiam and his large ruby ring, kiss it gently, then rise. they mask their annoyance with polite smiles, and introduce themselves to karl before being served a glass of wine by the butler. they sip the wine and laugh amongst themselves, unique people of unique personalities. 

  
oliver, a man with a rather long title, is old (three-and-sixty years!), from london, wheezy and small. he is an avid swimmer, and adores to smoke, however distastes the flavor of alcohol.   
  
james, a count with a tendency to drink, is quiet and collected, and stands there silently, swigging his wine around in his glass absentmindedly. he is apparently going through a recent divorce and half of his family is gone, so the poor man carries a grievance with him. 

karl didn’t know why, but when james shook hands with him, he felt deja vu, as if he met him, or he even knew him personally. but he kept himself calm and smiled, ignoring his spinning head and his churning stomach as he inquired after the man’s health. 

lord sebastian, a man with bright eyes, also quite moth to a flame when it comes to alcohol, socializes as much as he deems it to be.   
  
drew, a person with a rather mysterious background, haggard appearance, and questionable morals but a pleasing smile, prances around, making the place more lively.   
  
drew also threw him off. an overwhelming of deja vu and queasiness enveloped him so badly that he had to sit down and billiam told his butler to fetch a glyster, which karl refused profusely. 

all the nobles gathers about, conversing the night away. they play games. they play a new game that is recent from france called charades. they laugh their guts out at a childish game called duck duck gray duck, which karl was adamant to call duck duck goose.

their fun activities are interrupted when billiam passes around a flask, handing each one a special drink, and gives karl one. it weighs heavily in his hands, and unscrewing the top, he sips it.

immediately, he chokes, and internally, he curses billiam as he flails and the others shout with alarm.

as he’s panicking, and feels the bitter liquid burn his throat and his chest throb with pain, he can hear one, distinct, worried voice cry, “sir, milk! drink milk! it will dilute the poison! sir! karl! karl! follow my instructions!”

his vision blurs, his throat is closing, and he’s falling over before a pair of firm hands take hold of him, closing around his arms, and another pair of hands grabs his jaw and tips cold milk past his clamped lips.

the milk takes the affect, and as his vision clears, he can make out the faces and he wants to suddenly bawl. 

drew blinks at him, his eyebrows furrowed, and re-adjusts his grip on karl’s back. james gazes down at him, his eyes flooding with worry, his hand holding a silver vessel filled with milk.

his lips tug into a soft smile, and he whispers, “karl, are you alright?”

and all karl wants to do is thank them, and the urge to flee is so strong, but he keeps himself rooted and turns away, swallowing. 

( _has he met james and drew before? no, he hasn’t. so why…?_ )

billiam apologies with grace, while oliver shoves herbs in his face and learia hands him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. her hooded eyes from behind the mask glitters with tears.

sebastian’s hands flutter about with worry, and the man gives him his wineglass to get rid of the taste. the butler sighs at the vomitus and broken glass on the floor, and wearily heeds his master’s demand to clean it up.   
  
they awkwardly recollect in the ballroom and they return to their entertainment. karl doesn’t feel like playing anymore. he feels more sick than anything.   
  
little does he know the row of events soon to follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY ABOUT THE LATE UPDATE, HAD STUFF GOING ON. LOVE YOU ALL, MWAH <3


End file.
